


Plagued

by russianwinter013



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Death, Dark Past, Eventual Torture, F/M, Heavy gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russianwinter013/pseuds/russianwinter013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkness poisoning his mind was always there, no matter his external appearance. He was haunted by gruesome memories, things that could and would not leave no matter how hard he tried. His new team is great, no doubt about it, and treat him perfectly fine. But would they feel the same if they knew his horrible past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plagued

The sky was screaming.

It was filled with the horrible sound, a sound that grated his audio receptors. It was horrible, and it drove him insane, making him wish he could teat out the pain-inducing scream and throw it to the ground to crush beneath his bloody pedes.

The ground was soaked with the sickening blue lifeblood of the dead and the dying. Their screams were blazed into his mind, an infection with no hope of a cure. The sight of the bombs landing on them was still fresh in his mind—the shocked shouting, the inane point of a finger, the bone-rattling impact, the screaming as the first house was decimated to nothing but rubble and the only survivor crawled out with melted armor and protoform and Energon-gushing wounds. The way the ground had lurched and cracked as if it were a monster coming from an eternal slumber to unleash its wrath upon the world, the way it had groaned and sighed and screamed with the same, if not more, intensity of those who fell dead upon it—it was a gruesome, rancorous event.

He stumbled through the streets. The metal was cracked like the dry lips of some ancient, lips that were continually refused a quenching liquid. Only here, the liquid was not water—it was the blood of the dead.

The smell of smoke burned his insides. Ash inflamed his respiratory systems, scorching and charring the sensitive components. His harsh coughing and rasping intakes only incensed the wounds. The agonizing pain tore through his systems, a fire trapped within as its excruciating tongues of flame licked and burned his insides. There was a crack in his left optic that impaired his vision, a mere mockery of a relief, as the horrific scene turned from a horrifyingly clear image frightening enough to make him want to rip out his optics to a cracked, near imperceptible abstract image that barely lessened the detrimental horror that clothed him in its deadly embrace.

His intakes rattled through his chassis. Black darted in and out of his vision. No, he couldn't give up now, he couldn't! There was too much at stake. He had to get free, to find help in any way possible. His injuries were nearly fatal—the cracked vision and burned throat, armor and protoform were the least painful. His internals were badly damaged; he could feel it: a blazing, shrieking fire that coursed through everything in its way. The temptation to lie down and declare that there was nothing else to lie for was strong, nearly overpowering.

But that one thing—the one thing that kept him going—was hope.

Hope.

There was hope for tomorrow.

As cruel of a mockery it seemed, if he died, his strong city would never live on. It would be a mere shadow in the great wake of the world.

He had to live. He had to keep moving on.

It would be what his family wanted.

Tears stung his optics, but he was too weak to wipe them away. 

His family.

His carrier, warm and kind, gentle and caring for anyone who needed it—a provider of comfort and love for anyone lacking it.

His father, strong and tall, brave with a nearly overpowering presence—he was someone who would give protection and sacrifice himself for the weak at any cost.

His older brother, who always had his olfactory buried in a datapad and was considered emotionless with the cold, impassive way he approached everything.

His little brother.

The tears were streaming now, burning a trail down his scarred cheeks. Acid fire tore through his broken optic.

His little brother, always so talkative, always excited, always loud. Oh, how he was so loud, so curious, so intent on getting into everything that sparked his interest.

His intakes were heaving, and his steps were unsteady and shaky.

He couldn't make it—he wouldn't.

It was too far.

Too far.

Too...far...

With one last broken vent, his entire world collapsed into darkness.

* * *

 

Something rammed into the side of my helm, jarring me from my horrific dream. I groaned as the throbbing in my processor strengthened, worsening the horrific processor ache I already had.

"Wake up, Praxian." The jar happened again, and I gave a static-laced moan. My thoughts were hazy. Where was I? Why was it so dark? Why couldn't I see? What—was I floating? And—and who was—?

_"Wake up!"_

Electricity surged through my frame. I gave a strangled scream and my optics powered online, my doorwings jerking violently as they connected with a solid object. I attempted to arch, the movement aggravating the hypersensitive sensors on my chassis and wings. It took me a moment to realize that there was someone holding me. No. No. I had to—to get away.

I instantly regretted the action.

My body erupted in pain, overheating almost instantly as my cooling fans attempted to stutter to life. My ventilations were strangled and short, rattling throughout my frame. It was dark and I could now only see out of one optic, my good one. Something warm and damp dripped down my back and servos, aggravating the jagged wounds there.

"Ah told ya it would hurt 'im! Look at 'im, barely able ta see inna straight line!" A heavily accented, gravelly voice sounded near me, too close for comfort. I jerked away, pain settling itself deep in my mind and body. Who was it? Why did it hurt so much to move?

"Easy, kid." A faint outline of someone was heading towards me. I panted heavily, not liking the idea of how big whoever was approaching me was.

The being moving closer to me noticed my panicking but continued on in a calm and gentle voice. "We're not going to hurt you." A gentle, warm servo was suddenly on mine, and I took unusual consolation in it. 

 _"Who_ — _?"_ My vocalizer refused to work properly, emitting a burst of static that was only barely recognizable as words. Primus, I sounded like a sparking.

"No, don't talk. You have been badly injured." I could now figure out that the voice belonged to a mech—as much as it could to me battered sensory network. The mech's servo was gently pushing me, and then I realized that he was leading me to a berth, all but carrying me because of the scrapheap state of my pedes.

 _"Where am I?"_ The question barely came out distinguishable through the static my vocalizer was constantly emitting. 

"On a med-ship," the mech answered, finally setting me down after what seemed like forever. "Now relax. It will all be over soon."

Sudden warmth washed over me, and I fell into a dreamless stasis.


End file.
